What Counts
by peridotpirate
Summary: Post the episode "His Last Vow." Molly agrees to move into 221b to take care of a very fretful Sherlock.
1. Introduction

**_Here is the teaser chapter for my upcoming fanfic, just to see if any of you are interested by the time I actually post the real deal. Have fun! I have lots more in store for you! If you want current updates on how it's going, I'm always on tumblr, so don't hesitate to contact me!_**

* * *

An Introduction

"Come in," said a deep voice lazily from the other side of the closed door. Molly Hooper blew out the breath she had been holding when she knocked. She shifted the strap on her tote, relieving the pain that had started in her shoulder from its weight. Her bag didn't contain much, only enough clothing to last her five or six days, toiletries, other necessities and whatnot. Once her bag was resting more comfortably on her shoulder, she grabbed the brass knob hesitantly and tried to calm her nerves. Molly had no idea if he was aware of what John had asked of her.

She had been finishing up at St. Bart's when John unexpectedly lumbered into her lab.

"Oh, hi John," she said as she looked up from her papers.

"Hi Molly." John walked right up to her, his fingers twitching like they always did when he was anxious. "Listen, can we talk for a minute?"

Molly raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Yeah, sure. Just let me put away Ms. Addleton's file…" she shuffled quickly through her papers, stuffing them into the manila folder with the label reading _Addleton, Natalie M_. "So… is Sherlock with you?" she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

John cleared his throat and his fingers twitched again. "No, just me I'm afraid." Molly bit her lip and turned away to put the folder into the filing cabinet. She had wanted to see Sherlock ever since she learned that he would, in fact, be remaining in London. When Molly heard that Sherlock murdered a man, her heart was broken. It was not because he had killed, but because she believed that he was put into such a horrible situation as to where he had to kill. However, no one fully explained what had happened that Christmas afternoon to her, so what had occurred was left to her imagination.

"Okay," Molly said when she turned back to face John, "What do you need?"

John, appearing quite ruffled, cleared his throat again, twitched his fingers a bit, and looked about the room. "Well um, you know what happened with the whole…never mind, you know what I'm talking about, um…" He swallowed as he tried to find the right words. She knew that he was speaking of the day Magnussen was murdered. Molly watched him, her concern increasing by the second.

"Is something wrong?" she asked slowly.

John clicked his tongue, "Not entirely, no…"

"Then what is it?"

He pursed his lips. "Well, since… _then_," he said delicately, "Sherlock hasn't been quite…oh, the same, I should say."

"What do you mean?" Molly momentarily cursed herself for sounding a bit too nervous.

John sighed. "He's just—I dunno, he's different somehow. Like he's going mad or something. His brother is worried about him."

"And you are too, I can tell," she commented quietly.

"Yep." John flicked his eyes up at her once, and then back to the table.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Molly could tell in his tone that he wanted her to offer her services, rather than him have to ask.

"Yes, actually, that's why I came here, to ask you something." Molly raised her eyebrows and waited for his question. "Right, well," he cleared his throat once more, "I don't quite know how to ask you this, but um…" he paused for a moment, looking down at his shoes. "Well, I know you and Sherlock have a sort of… _friendship_," Molly grimaced, "and uh, a couple of others and I think it would be good for Sherlock to have someone with him…" John shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Molly's brow furrowed in confusion.

"So… you—oh, _me_?" Molly gaped at him in shock.

"Wait—just listen—"

"Why do you think that's a good idea? He wouldn't let me move in anyways, I know him."

"Which is exactly my point. Because you know him."

"Wait," she said as she put her fingers to her forehead. A headache had begun to form. "Who is 'we'?"

John swallowed and looked at her now. "His brother, for starters, and Mary and myself, and Greg and Mrs. Hudson." Molly closed her eyes and grit her teeth together.

"Why can't Mrs. Hudson be enough?"

John sighed impatiently, "Look, Molly. Sherlock needs you. He doesn't know it, but he does."

"But how do you—"

"You're the only one who can, I dunno, _handle_ him, Molly. It's always been you."

Molly's heart did a little flip on its own accord, but she tried to maintain her composure.

"Really?" she squeaked.

A small grin crept onto John's face. "Yes."

Molly felt what she could only describe as childish excitement. She smoothed down her sweater. "So, um, how would me moving in help exactly?"

"Well, for one thing, he'll have someone to talk to, instead of talking to that bloody skull of his." He and Molly shared a shy smile. "And, uh he's been acting a tad strange lately—restless, and showing signs of anxiety." John blew out a breath, "He's lonely, but he won't admit it. And ever since that Moriarty deal all over the telly, he's been going haywire." He shrugged his shoulders. "He just needs someone to be there for him—to make sure he doesn't get himself into trouble…"

Molly swallowed and looked at her feet. By 'trouble' she automatically thought about Sherlock's habit of turning to drugs when there's nothing else. Reading the results of his drug test on that awful day had infuriated her as much as it broke her heart. _That cannot happen again_, she thought, _ever_.

"Sherlock just needs to calm down and lay low until we get anything else on the Moriarty case." Molly chewed the inside of her cheek; she really needed to break that habit.

It's not that Molly had anything against the idea of living with Sherlock, she just wasn't sure how he would deal with it, especially this soon after her falling out with Tom. Things were bound to be uncomfortable and awkward. But, it would also be helping Sherlock, and Molly would never wish this kind of despair on someone.

Molly sighed and met John's gaze. "I don't know, John. What will he do if I agree?"

John scoffed. "I don't give a damn if he likes it or not, it's going to help him, and that's the point." Molly fidgeted with the buttons on her sweater, the watch on her left wrist, anything to avoid John's pleading eyes. John licked his lips quickly, growing desperate. "Okay, Molly, how about you just give it a go—a few days, at least, and see if you can handle it."

"And if I can't?" she asked meekly.

"Then, I dunno, I'll work something else out. I'll have him move in with Mary and me."

"Oh, John! No, that would be worse!" she cried, imagining the hell John and a very pregnant Mary would be living in. Her heart swelled at the level of concern he had for Sherlock.

John pursed his lips. "So you see? He would be better off staying at Baker Street, just with someone to watch him."

Molly was starting to agree with John's logic. She almost complied when she remembered something. Rather, some_one_. "Toby. My cat. What will I do with him? I don't think Sherlock would be too fond of him."

John scratched behind his ear. "Well, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind looking after him. She'll probably do it out of gratitude for you helping Sherlock."

Molly took a breath. _I can't believe this_, she thought. "Oh, alright. I'll do it."


	2. One

One.

"Come in," said a deep voice lazily from the other side of the closed door. Molly Hooper blew out the breath she had been holding when she knocked. She shifted the strap on her tote, relieving the pain that had started in her shoulder from its weight. Her bag didn't contain much, only enough clothing to last her five or six days, toiletries, other necessities and whatnot. Once her bag was resting more comfortably on her shoulder, she grabbed the brass knob hesitantly and tried to calm her nerves. Molly turned the knob slowly and pushed open the door.

"Molly?" Sherlock's baritone voice sounded confused. Molly stood in the doorway and grinned sheepishly.

"Hi."

Sherlock was looking up at her from his spot on the couch. His long body stretched out from one end to the other, hands steepled under his chin, dressed in what appeared to be sleepwear: comfort pants, a T-Shirt, and robe. He must have been browsing his mind palace, Molly assumed.

"What are you doing here?" His eyes roamed over her body and then her bag. John had obviously not told Sherlock about their plan.

"I, uh, I'm here to stay with you for a few days."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"To…keep you company."

"This is John's doing, am I wrong? Well, tell him I am in no need of a babysitter." He turned his gaze to the ceiling and tried to ignore her existence.

Molly chewed on her bottom lip. "No. I'm doing this for you, Sherlock. I'm worried about you."

Sherlock scoffed, but otherwise gave her no reply. Molly shut the door behind her and slid her tote off of her shoulder. It hit the floor with a thud. She had made it this far and she wasn't going to back out now.

Molly stepped into the small kitchen. "I'm going to make dinner. What do you want?"

"Leave, Molly," Sherlock said, his voice rich in annoyance, "I don't want you here."

Molly ignored him and opened the refrigerator. It was otherwise empty if not for the spoiled milk and jar of pickles. "Right…" Molly muttered under her breath.

She came back to the sitting room. Sherlock had closed his eyes.

"Well, I'm going to go get takeout. Is Italian okay?"

"Go away, Molly."

"Right. Italian it is." She seized her wallet and left, leaving Sherlock alone once more. He sighed with indifference as the door shut behind her.

Molly returned shortly carrying a bag containing their Italian takeout. She found Sherlock in exactly the same position. Sherlock didn't even open his eyes as she went into the kitchen with a sigh. Molly cleared off the closest side of the table, setting aside flasks and vials and equipment. She set out the paper boxes and filled two cups (the only clean ones she could find) with water and walked back over to the resting sociopath.

"C'mon, Sherlock, I've got food."

"Not hungry," he drawled, keeping his eyes firmly shut. Molly stepped up to him, and was about to pull him off of the sofa when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. Seeing her bag unzipped and its contents haphazardly thrown around inside, she gaped at Sherlock.

"Did you go through my things?"

"Yes," he said simply.

"Why?" she demanded.

Her face burned as she thought of the bras and underwear he had seen.

"Bored."

Molly put her face in her hands. _Oh my God_, she thought, _this is going to be a nightmare_. She gritted her teeth and stepped back over to where Sherlock lay.

"I bought dinner, Sherlock. Come on."

"Not hungry," he repeated in that same lazy, contempt tone. Molly wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he glared at her.

"Get up. You need to eat," Molly said as she tugged at him. Her cheeks felt hot again when he didn't budge, and he continued to burn holes in her skin with his eyes.

"Go home Molly."

Molly let go of his wrist and took a step back. The nagging sense of a headache prodded at the back of her mind again. "Please, Sherlock. Just eat."

Sherlock considered her with an icy stare. He pressed his hands together again and nudged at his bottom lip with the tips of his fingers. "If I eat, will you leave me alone?"

Molly sighed. "Sure."

_Liar_, Sherlock thought. He slowly sat up and rolled his head on his shoulders. Molly grimaced at the cracks and pops. He stood, sniffed, and turned his nose up at her and walked into the kitchen, sitting himself in one of the chairs that had been pulled out. Molly followed him and dropped triumphantly into the chair opposite of his.

Sherlock ate in silence while Molly went on about her job, her cat, her friends, anything to try and relieve the tension between them. He just scowled into his plate. Sherlock found everything she had to say dull and uninteresting, except for the short bit about Tom. Molly hadn't meant to bring him up, so when she did, she quickly changed the subject. From then on, they ate quietly, no sound other than plastic forks scraping on paper takeout boxes.

For the first time Molly noticed dark circles under Sherlock's eyes; it seemed as if he was in need of a good night's rest. He looked awful, really, now that she saw him fully. Hair a mess, a dark shadow over his face, he also looked as if he had lost weight. Seeing him in such a state made her heart hurt.

When they had finished, Molly cleaned up and Sherlock made his way back to his couch and curled up into a ball facing the wall. He was unhappy with himself for complying with Molly's orders. _Shouldn't give in that easily_, he chided himself. Molly entered and stared at him from where she stood.

"Sherlock? Is everything alright? Are you okay, I mean?" Sherlock didn't answer. Molly licked her lips. "If you want to talk, I'm here for you, okay? Just remember that please." She walked over to the door and opened it.

"Where are you going?" came Sherlock's deep voice, muffled a bit by the cushion.

"I'm going to check on my cat. Mrs. Hudson's taking care of him for me. I wasn't sure if you'd be okay with him or not…so…" Without another word, she glanced back at his motionless form and closed the door behind her.

* * *

When she returned half an hour later, Sherlock was still curled in the same spot. Molly found it incredible that someone like him could just…_sit_.

"Sherlock?" she asked as the door shut with a creak. "Are you asleep?"

"No," he breathed.

Molly chewed on the inside of her cheek. "Are you tired?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No."

"You seem tired."

"I haven't slept in three days," he said as if it was no major concern.

Molly strode over to Sherlock's chair and plopped down into it, sinking into the comfortable leather. "Why not?"

"Can you not sit there?"

Molly scowled, but didn't move. "Why haven't you slept in three days?"

"Sleep is useless. I don't like people sitting in my chair."

"You and I both know that sleep is good for you. It helps with healing and memory."

Sherlock muttered something incomprehensible in return.

"You should get some sleep, Sherlock. You'll feel better."

He gave no reply. Molly sighed and lifted herself from the chair. She ambled over to where he rested.

"Don't touch me, Molly," Sherlock warned.

Molly grabbed him by the bicep with both of her hands and tried to turn him over. "C'mon, Sherlock."

"I feel fine," he spat. Molly clenched her jaw and glared down at him. She was getting fed up with his childish attitude. She pulled with all of her strength and Sherlock was taken off guard. He wasn't aware that she was capable of such force. He was jerked onto his back, almost sliding off of the edge of the sofa. Sherlock stared at her as she managed to drag him to his feet. He said nothing, but Molly didn't need words to know what he was thinking, based on the daggers his eyes were shooting at her.

Sherlock unhappily allowed her to walk him to his room. Molly pushed open the door and found the light switch with little difficulty. Her cheeks felt hot again. This was Sherlock's bedroom—uncharted territory. She felt foolish for her discomfort, but nonetheless led Sherlock inside. Luckily he was already in sleepwear, so she dragged him over to the bed.

"This is nonsense, Molly," Sherlock grumbled.

"No, you need sleep."

Sherlock backed up suddenly, jerking himself from her grip. "Why are you doing this?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Because I'm your friend and because you need to get better."

"No," he said harshly, "Why are _you_ doing this? John could have picked any number of other participants. Why _you_? "

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion. "Because I care about you—"

"No, Molly," he said angrily, "John knows that you've always been _infatuated_ with me and knew that you'd take his offer." Molly blushed violently, but held his gaze. "Oh, but you knew it would be a living hell to stay with me, so you wouldn't put yourself in that situation, but yet, here you are, Molly." Sherlock stepped up to her, towering over her blushing form. "Here you are, as a thorn in my side. So the question stands. If you knew it would be miserable, why would you agree to it?"

Molly let out a breath she was unaware she had been holding. She always hated it when Sherlock spoke to her like that. She always felt naked and unprotected.

"I said it before," she stammered, "it's because I'm your friend."

"No, Molly," he whispered, his eyes darted back and forth across her face, studying her expression. "It's more than that." Molly shivered as his hot breath tickled her face. "But what is it?" he asked himself.

Molly swallowed, her throat dry. "I count," she said weakly.

"What?" he demanded.

She cleared her throat. "I said it's because I count," she said it with more confidence this time. Sherlock's eyebrows drew closer together as he tried to make sense of her words. "I can see you, remember? I can see when you're hurting," she looked up into his piercing eyes. "I agreed because I knew that you needed someone who understands you like I do." Molly blushed again and looked away.

Sherlock squinted his eyes as he remembered their conversation from two years ago as clearly as if it occurred only moments ago. It was then that Molly revealed her compassion and concern for him, and he would never delete that from his memory.

"I care about you Sherlock, I really do."

"I know," he said softly, detesting himself.

"Is that a good enough reason then?" she scoffed, "to take care of you?"

Sherlock regretted his outburst now. He hadn't meant to upset her this much, he only wanted answers. "Yes," he said, ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry, Molly. Forgive me." He swallowed and stepped away from her.

"It's okay," Molly said with closed eyes. She was so forgiving, and Sherlock envied her for it. He knew that no matter what he did, no matter how horrible he was, she would always forgive him. He abused that power, and he knew it. Molly cleared her throat suddenly and exited quickly, muttering something that sounded like "Good night" as she shut the door. Sherlock was alone.

Molly wandered back to the sitting room and produced a blanket she had packed and set it on the arm of the couch. She pulled out her night clothes and dressed in the bathroom. When she emerged, she noticed that there was no light coming from under Sherlock's door. She was glad that he was doing what she had told him, and was getting some sleep. Molly threw a pillow down and snuggled onto the couch and almost instantly fell asleep.

* * *

Molly awoke with the most horrible ache in her neck. She moaned as she pulled herself into a sitting position and rubbed her neck. The clock read 8:27 a.m. and she thanked Mycroft Holmes and his supernatural powers that got her out of work for the next few days. Molly yawned and padded barefoot to the bathroom. She was startled at the state of her hair, so she brushed it out quickly and drew it up into a sleek ponytail. Normally she would hop in the shower first thing in the morning, but she didn't want to wake Sherlock.

Sherlock. She froze. _I have just slept in Sherlock's flat_, Molly realized_. I have just slept on Sherlock's couch_. She blinked into the mirror. Annoyed by her own insecurity, she splashed cool water on her face, trying to wash away her embarrassment.

Molly stepped into the kitchen and found Sherlock, his curls in a jumbled mess, leaning over the coffee pot.

"Good morning, Molly," he said without turning around.

"Morning," she said timidly.

Once the coffee had started brewing, Sherlock turned to face her. He looked better already, Molly noticed. The circles under his eyes weren't as dark, and his skin didn't seem as sickly pale as before. Seeing his untidy curls made her break into a grin.

"What?" he asked defensively.

Molly sat down at the table, still smiling. "It's nothing."

"What is it?"

Molly shrugged, "Your hair."

"Hair…?" he asked as if the word was foreign to him.

Molly exhaled sharply, "Yes, your hair, Sherlock. It's messy, that's all."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and ran a hand through his curls, ruffling them around a bit. "Better?" Surprisingly enough, it had made them look better.

"Yeah," Molly said, her stomach fluttered. She thought everything he did was sexy, it wasn't her fault.

"How do you like your coffee?" Sherlock asked her when the coffee pot shut off.

Molly shrugged. "However you make yours is fine." She watched him with interest. Sherlock never did things for others.

Sherlock set her coffee in front of her and sat down in the other chair.

"Thank you," she murmured and took a sip. Black with two sugars. "So," she began, gazing hesitantly at him from across the table, "What's this for?"

"My way of apologizing… for last night," he said without looking up.

Molly grinned and bit her lip. They drank their coffee in silence. It was as awkward as the silence from the previous night.

She quickly finished her coffee in one gulp and excused herself to go take a shower. As the hot water ran down her body, Molly wondered what else would be in store for her at 221b.

* * *

"No, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored her. "Mmmm… This one looks interesting…" He scrolled down the web page reading the article in depth.

"Sherlock, John said no cases."

Sherlock squinted and leaned in closer to the screen. "Food poisoning? Obviously not."

"Sherlock!"

"I don't care what John said, Molly," he muttered.

Molly scowled at the back of his head. All morning Sherlock had been sitting at his computer, and Molly had no idea what he had been doing until now. John had warned her that Sherlock would try to draw her into a case with him.

* * *

"But why can't he take a case?" Molly had asked John over the phone. She was at her flat, throwing clothes into her travel bag.

"Not everyone knows that he's still in London," he said. "And Mycroft wants it to stay that way. For now, at least."

"Fair enough." She rummaged through her bag to make sure she had everything. Toby mewed quietly from his pet carrier. Molly sighed. She zipped up her bag. "Alright. I'm heading over there now."

"Good luck." They hung up and Molly took a breath. _I'm going to need it._

* * *

Molly stepped around Sherlock and shut the laptop. It closed with a soft _click_.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with irritation. _If this wasn't Molly…,_ he thought angrily. Sherlock glared down at his closed laptop. "I said I would let you 'take care of me,' but that doesn't include disrupting my crime solving."

Molly grit her teeth. "This _is_ taking care of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up at her, but refused to play this game. He made to open the laptop. Molly slammed it shut again with the palm of her hand, almost crushing Sherlock's fingertips. She confiscated the laptop and stepped back, hugging it to her chest.

"Sherlock, you know you can't go outside."

Anger flared inside him. "Molly," he said severely. He shot up from his chair, which tumbled to the ground, and faced her. For a moment Molly was genuinely afraid that Sherlock would harm her. His eyes were wild as he glared at her. She had never felt in danger of him until now. _John was right_, Moly thought, _he's getting worse_.

"Give it to me, Molly."

"Sherlock," she said with a hitch in her voice, "You need to calm down. It's just a laptop." He made a step towards her, and she a step back.

"I'll calm down once you return it to me."

"You'll have your laptop when I know that you won't run off to work a case!"

Sherlock threw his hands up. He was used to Molly complying with whatever he asked. "What does it matter to you?" he shouted.

Molly tried to keep her voice steady. "You can't go out there," she gestured to the window, "Everyone thinks you're being sent on a mission or something, I don't know. But you can't show yourself!"

Sherlock made a loud, frustrated noise and put a hand to his forehead. "Doing nothing is driving me up the wall." He looked distraught, but Molly held her ground.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you can't get involved. Not yet."

She didn't sound sorry at all. Sherlock looked her up and down. Once he realized that there was no convincing her, he huffed angrily and stomped off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Molly closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to lower the rate of her rabid heart. She was brought out of it when someone rapped quickly on the door.

"Yoohoo!" Mrs. Hudson said as she opened the door. "I heard shouting. Is everything alright?" The older lady looked at Molly with concern. Molly shook her head.

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock's just being Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson gave her a knowing smile. "Well, do you fancy popping down for a cuppa? I'm sure that cat of yours would love to see you. He's such a lovely thing!"

Molly pursed her lips. "I think I'd better stay here until he cools down. Thank you, though," she added. Mrs. Hudson made to leave. "Actually, Mrs. Hudson, can you take this and hide it?" She gestured to the laptop in her arms. "I can't let Sherlock look for cases."

"Of course, dear." She took the laptop from Molly and left.

Molly rubbed her forehead and sighed loudly. A ringing noise had started to bounce around her head. She threw herself onto the couch and grabbed a book that was on the coffee table. She began to read it, though she wasn't focusing on what the book was talking about. Her argument with Sherlock was still on her mind. She eventually reached the point where she wasn't even reading anymore, only staring blankly at the page. Molly had seen Sherlock angry before, but this time it was different. There was something in his eyes, something off. All she knew was that she needed to help him.

* * *

When Sherlock finally emerged from his room it was nearly sundown. He stumbled into the sitting room and threw himself down into his chair. Molly eyed him with concern.

"Do you want me to make something for dinner? Mrs. Hudson brought up groceries a while ago." Sherlock didn't answer. Molly swallowed nervously. "Look Sherlock, I'm sorry about earlier, but I had to do it." Sherlock grunted in response. Molly sighed and stood up from her seat on the couch. "I'm going to cook something," she walked up to where he sat. "And you should get a shower, okay? It'll be done by the time you get out." She turned away without waiting for a reply.

Sherlock watched her as she entered the kitchen. _What's the point,_ he thought, _in disobeying her anymore? The more I disobey, the more annoying my situation becomes_. He scowled at her back as she moved about the kitchen, producing pots and utensils. How is it that _she_, of all people, can make me do such things, Sherlock wondered. He picked himself up and went to the bathroom without a word.

Molly was right; when he came out of his bedroom, having changed into clean clothes, dinner was set for two and Molly was sitting at the table, waiting for him.

"Feel better?" she asked cheerfully. No answer. Moody Sherlock was the most obnoxious version of him that Molly had encountered. Molly didn't try conversation this time. She was going to let him sulk as he pleased.

Molly was clearing the table when Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Thank you."

Molly grinned at him from across the kitchen. He always looked as if he was in pain when he thanked someone.

"It's nothing," she shrugged, "I like cooking."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet hers. "No," they slid back down to the table, "I mean thank you for helping me. I know I'm an ignorant, inconsiderate ass, and I… lack the ability to comprehend when someone cares about me." He looked back up into her eyes. "So, thank you, Molly."

Molly's grinned at him. "Like I said before, Sherlock, I'm here for you. Don't forget that, anything you need, I'm here."

Sherlock didn't know how to respond adequately to that, so he stood without a word. He stepped up to Molly, who was leaning against the kitchen counter; he was so close that Molly could smell the faint clean scent of his soap. Molly's face felt hot, and she knew that he noticed her blush, but thankfully didn't mention it. Sherlock leaned down slowly and kissed her on the cheek. Their eyes met when he pulled back, but only for a second before he turned away and disappeared into his bedroom. Molly closed her eyes and held her breath. She knew that Sherlock was well aware of her interest in him, so why would he torture her like that? Molly dared not give herself hope, but she thought that she saw a genuine emotion in his eyes when he leaned back from kissing her.

Molly cleared her throat and tried to distract herself from that thought. When she had finished picking up the kitchen, she wrapped herself up in a blanket and willed herself to sleep, not even bothering to change her clothes. She fell asleep soon after she had continuously replayed that kiss in her head.

* * *

This time when Molly awoke, the pain in her neck was worse than the first night.

"Oh, God," she mumbled as she massaged her neck.

"Yes, that sofa is not the most comfortable place to sleep." There was a dark figure standing on the threshold of the kitchen and sitting room.

"Oh, God! Sherlock!" Molly's hand flew to her throat. "You gave me a heart attack."

"No I didn't," he stated simply as he walked into the room. Molly took deep breaths as to calm herself. Sherlock dropped into his chair and observed her over his steepled hands. "You look dreadful, Molly."

"Good morning to you too," Molly muttered grumpily. She pushed herself off the couch, grabbed her toiletries and a change of clothes, and made her way to the bathroom, scowling all the while. Sherlock watched her with apprehension. _What did I say this time_? he asked himself. Molly returned in fresh clothes and brushed hair.

"Better?" she asked him sarcastically.

"Yes, quite an improvement," he mused. Molly pursed her lips but didn't respond. She knew that it wasn't his intention to be rude, but he had no filter whatsoever when it came to conversation.

"Do you want any breakfast?" she asked as she put her dirty laundry inside her tote.

"No, I'm fine." Molly was about to enter the kitchen when Sherlock cleared his throat. "Molly?"

She stopped and turned to him. "Yeah?"

Sherlock hesitated. "You… you don't have to sleep on that couch if you don't want to."

Molly nodded. "Yeah, I should probably ask for a key to John's old room from Mrs. Hudson. I'll pop down sometime today."

Sherlock looked down. "What I meant was that you don't have to sleep on the sofa, and that you can have my bed, if you would prefer."

Molly grinned at his offer. "No, Sherlock, it's alright. I wouldn't want to make you sleep on the couch either."

Sherlock looked up suddenly, and appeared very confused. "Who said I would be sleeping on the couch?"

"Well, I thought—I mean, where will you sleep then?"

"My bed?" he said slowly, as if it was the most obvious answer. Molly just stared at him. Sherlock sighed loudly. "We're both adults, Molly." He almost sounded as if he was chastising her.

"Right," Molly squeaked. She coughed once and swallowed. "Right," she said evenly, "Um, thank you."

Sherlock eyed her as she turned quickly on her heel and entered the small kitchen. Molly decided to only have coffee now; she wasn't hungry anymore.

* * *

"I'm bored, Molly. Make me not bored," Sherlock whined from his chair. He was lounging on it on his back, his long legs draped over its arm, while his head rested on the other.

"I know," Molly said sympathetically from John's chair. She was reading yet another book from Sherlock's collection, only this time she actually comprehended what it was that she was reading.

"How much longer do I have to be trapped in here?" Sherlock glared at the ceiling, "trapped like a wild animal in a cage."

Molly set the book in her lap. "I'm not sure."

Sherlock scoffed. "Some use you are," he muttered and sighed loudly, and rather obnoxiously.

Molly ignored his comment as per usual. She looked him over as he lay awkwardly in his chair. She was glad that he was cleaning himself up now, wearing nicer clothes, instead of wallowing around the flat in pajamas. Sherlock's white shirt was buttoned up, all except for the top few, which revealed a glimpse of his hard, muscular chest. One of his arms was bent behind him to support his head as he rested it on the chair. Beneath the thin shirt fabric, Molly saw the curve of taut, lean muscles that flexed when he repositioned himself in the chair. _God, he is gorgeous_, Molly thought.

"It is not polite to stare, Molly." Sherlock glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

"I wasn't—" Molly gasped, quite flustered. Her cheeks flared with embarrassment and she quickly brought up her book to hide it from Sherlock, who was still watching her.

"Are you bored?"

Molly blinked and tried to steady her voice. "No," she said from behind her shelter.

"Being ordinary must be so blissful," he sighed with wonder. Molly was suddenly stricken with irritation and let her book fall to her lap.

"Are you saying that I'm ordinary?" she challenged, "As in you're too good for me or something?"

"I'm simply stating that someone like you can easily entertain themselves, whereas I am in need of more… gratifying objectives."

Molly scowled at him. "I'm not even going to argue with you anymore, Sherlock…"

"Wasn't trying to argue," he mumbled.

After another long period of doing absolutely nothing, Sherlock became restless, twitchy. He shouldn't allow his mind to become stoic from such nonsense orders, and from his brother of all people. He needed to be active, to do something, anything, to get his blood pumping again. His flat was suffocating him, and he couldn't tolerate it any longer.

"I can't handle this!" Sherlock suddenly blurted out angrily. He swiftly, and with definite purpose, stood up from his chair and made hastily for his bedroom.

"What're you doing?" Molly called after him.

"Going to sleep," he said angrily, "I can't stand not doing anything while conscious."

He shut the door with force, leaving Molly, craning her neck around John's chair, alone with her book. She looked over at the clock. 9:18 p.m. Molly herself was feeling drowsy from not being active all day, and wanted to do likewise. She decided that it would have been rude to decline Sherlock's offer of sharing his bed (or at least that's what she kept telling herself) but she didn't want to go in there while he was still awake. There was that awkward scene of climbing into his bed in her sleepwear while he watched her to consider, and she'd rather sneak in when he was asleep.

Hearing nothing from Sherlock for a half hour, Molly slowly picked out her night clothes. _What the hell was I thinking when I packed? _All she brought to sleep in were baggy T-Shirts and very short shorts_. _Molly had a momentary panic attack whilst choosing her clothes. She changed in the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and took a breath to calm the butterflies in her stomach. _This is ridiculous_, she thought. _He's right; we're both mature adults who can handle sleeping in the same bed together. _An image of the two of them intimately snuggled together under the sheets forced its way to the front of her mind. _Oh, God!_

Molly turned off the lights in the sitting room, kitchen, and then bathroom, doing this slowly as to buy her time. She paused outside Sherlock's door and swallowed. There was a lump in her throat. She pushed open door with little confidence and stepped into the dim room. A stream of blue light stretched across the foot of the wide bed that was centered in the room, giving Molly just enough illumination to make her way around any obstacles in her way. The door clicked shut behind her and she came around to the far side of the bed. Sherlock was lying on his stomach, shirtless, Molly could tell, by his bare back that was only half covered by the sheets. Molly momentarily wondered if he slept with any clothes at all. She gulped and pulled back the comforter and slid down into the warm bed. Her feet rubbed against Sherlock's bare leg and she grimaced, waiting for him to roll over and accuse her of disturbing his REM sleep or something. But he didn't. He was in deep sleep, as far as Molly could tell. Giving his motionless body one last glance, she rolled onto her side and faced the wall, and tried to keep her imagination under control.

* * *

The mattress shifted slightly as Sherlock sat up. He rubbed his eyes and blinked into the darkness, trying to adjust his eyesight. He twisted around and saw Molly for the first time since she had come in, and she was curled in a ball on the far side of the bed, her breathing slow and steady. Sherlock was startled when he felt some foreign emotion swelling inside his chest as he gazed down at this girl in his bed. In the moonlight he could see her distinct jawline that curved just above her beautiful neck. He wanted to lean over and cup her face in his hands… Sherlock snapped himself out of it and rubbed his face violently. _Where did that come from? _he asked himself.

He stood and walked to the door. Without a look back at Molly, he exited quietly, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

Molly yawned greatly and stretched out on her back. She curled her toes and sighed amongst the warm sheets. Her eyes opened slowly and she gazed dreamily at the ceiling. Fresh morning sunlight flitted about the room, giving it a bright yellow-white glow. Molly turned her head to look over at her bedmate, only to be greeted with a glorious sight.

Sherlock was lying on his back with one arm slung across his eyes, while the other rested at his side. Molly's stomach did a flip. The sheets only covered up to the middle of his stomach, providing Molly with a grand view of his naked torso. It took every ounce of self-restraint for her not to curl up against his side and run a hand over his pale chest. Molly swallowed and turned her head away quickly. _No Molly. You can't think like this anymore. He's not yours_, she warned herself.

Frustrated by the argument inside her mind, she climbed out of the comfort of Sherlock's bed and tiptoed out the door, grabbing one of Sherlock's bathrobes on her way.

Molly entered the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face, trying to clear her head. _I'm here to be his friend, nothing more_. Despite that bold thought, images surfaced and floated around her consciousness. Images of her and Sherlock lounging on the bed together; he was resting with his head on her lap and she was running a hand through his dark curls. Molly frowned into the mirror. _Why can't I just let him go_? She slid her arms into Sherlock's robe and breathed in his sweet scent.

Molly gave her reflection one last scolding look and wandered over to the coffee pot. After making a cup, she then proceeded to the sitting room where she took her favorite seat: Sherlock's. The cool leather felt good on Molly's bare legs. She drew them up to her chest and settled down with a book and her coffee, prepared to suffer another uneventful morning.

The door to Sherlock's bedroom finally creaked open. Molly had been in the sitting room for hours, waiting for him to awaken. She even popped down to visit Toby and have breakfast with Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson offered to wash Sherlock's clothes for her if she'd bring them down sometime. Molly was greatly relieved; she didn't want to be washing Sherlock's underwear.

It was nearly midday and he was just now deciding to emerge from his den. _About time_, Molly thought as she sipped her coffee. Sherlock lumbered aimlessly into the kitchen in a daze. Molly looked up as he came closer. She blinked, and her face burned hot.

"Um, Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he mumbled, his deep voice thick with dreariness.

She looked away. "Um, don't you think it would be nice if you put on some clothes?" Sherlock squinted at her in confusion, and then looked down. His only article of clothing was his deep red underwear that barely stretched mid-thigh.

"My apologies," he said and spun around a little too fast. He had to catch himself on the kitchen counter. As soon as his back was turned, Molly allowed herself to enjoy the view. He was so beautiful that her heart physically hurt whenever she laid eyes on him. _Stop it, Molly!_

Sherlock returned, clothed in long striped pajama bottoms and a grey T-Shirt. He stumbled into the sitting room. "Is there any—" he didn't get to finish his question before his foot got caught on the end of the rug and he pitched forward, crashing into the back of John's chair.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried when he dropped to the floor. Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his back. He grunted as he managed to pick himself up by using John's chair for support. When steadied, he peered down at Molly and squinted again.

"You're sitting in my chair," he looked closer, "And you're wearing my robe."

Molly stared at him. "Are you okay, Sherlock? That looked like it hurt."

"Fine. Why are you wearing my robe? And I've told you I don't like people sitting in my chair."

"Huh? Oh, I was cold, I hope you don't mind." She was fed up with his comments about his chair. "What were you going to ask me?"

"Can't remember," Sherlock huffed and began to pace about the room.

Molly pursed her lips. "You should go get a shower."

"Why?" he asked, as if she made the most pointless suggestion in the world.

"Because I'll be out of your chair by the time you get done."

Sherlock held her gaze for a long moment before ambling to the bathroom. Molly sighed. He's so like a child sometimes. She put her book and coffee aside and stood up stretching. Molly walked into Sherlock's bedroom to collect his laundry for Mrs. Hudson. She gathered shirts, underwear, and pants, being sure to check pockets so nothing would be washed by accident.

It was when Molly was reaching into Sherlock's coat's deep pocket when her fingertips brushed over something cold and smooth. _Glass_? Molly curled her fingers around the small object and pulled it out, turning to face the window to get better light to observe it. It was a small vial-like needle, plunger and all, containing a peculiar liquid. Molly's insides froze and she felt numb. Alarms flared in her head. _Oh no, God no._

* * *

Sherlock came out of the bathroom drying his hair with a small towel. He looked up and saw Molly glaring at him from across the kitchen. She was leaning against the counter, right in front of the sink, holding up something small and something very familiar to him. He dropped the towel.

"Molly," he said in a low voice.

"Where did you get this?" she asked him in an equally low voice. Sherlock took a step towards her.

"Molly, give that to me."

Molly clenched her jaw. "Where did you get this?" she repeated, her voice strained. Sherlock analyzed his options carefully.

"Last night," he said. "I got it last night."

"What are you talking about? You were _here_."

Sherlock felt sudden dread. Molly's lack of lashing out scared him. "No," he said.

Molly's eyes widened. "_No_? So you left? You snuck out?" Sherlock didn't respond, but Molly didn't need an answer to confirm her suspicion. "And is that why you've been acting strange this morning?" Again, there was no response. Molly glowered at him. "How _could_ you, how—" Molly shut her eyes tight and took a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. First I'm going to dispose of this, and then I'm going to call John."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "No, Molly. Give it to me." His eyes were wild, like when she stole his laptop, but in a more ravaged way, and he stepped towards her again, his hand reaching out for his needle.

Molly straightened up, putting herself on alert. "No, Sherlock. Now go sit down until John gets here."

She made to go to the bedroom and grab her mobile, but Sherlock blocked her way. He was standing directly in front of her and Molly had to crane her neck to make eye contact. Sherlock was close enough so that she felt his breath blow on her face. Despite her trying to maintain composure, she blushed violently as he walked forward, pushing her back against the counter. Molly's heart started beating out of control. _You know what he's doing, Molly_, she warned herself.

"Molly," Sherlock breathed as he bent his head so that their foreheads were touching. Molly put her hands behind her back, in the sink, tightly gripping the needle in one hand. _Molly, don't let him do this. Don't let him take advantage of your weakness. _Though her mind protested, she found herself unable to obey; she was transfixed by the nearness of the man she desired. One of Sherlock's hands came up and he stroked her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

"Please, Molly, give it to me."

Molly stared at his lips, yearning for him to go through with what he was threatening to do. _Stop it Molly! Stop it!_

"Molly," he whispered. Sherlock used the hand that was cupping her face to tilt her head back as he slowly brought his lips gently down to hers. Molly's eyes shut against her will and she completely melted in his arms. _Molly_! her mind screamed, but she ignored it. Molly was too focused on the beautiful feeling of Sherlock's lips lightly grazing over her own. Sherlock snaked his hand around her waist, and Molly thought he was going to caress her. His hand followed her arm until it rested on the hand holding the needle.

Before Molly could register what was happening, Sherlock had worked the needle from her hand. He pulled back in one jerky movement and grinned down at the prize in his hand with malicious triumph. Molly blinked, having realized what Sherlock had just done, and anger flared inside her. Also, there was fear. Fear for Sherlock, and for his safety.

Sherlock had backed away now, and was about to make a run for it. Molly drew back her hand, and with all her strength and might, she backhanded him across the face. Sherlock's head snapped violently and he made a harsh grunting noise. He stumbled back from the unexpected blow and the needle flew from his hand. It landed on the wooden table.

Both Molly and Sherlock dove for the needle, pushing and grabbing at each other, shouting and clawing.

"Stop it Molly!" Sherlock commanded.

Their arms tangled together, Molly and Sherlock's hands fought for custody of the needle, and it was flung about the table until it was knocked to the ground. It hit the floor with a soft _clink_. Without a second thought, Molly brought down her bare heel and smashed the vial to pieces. Pain shot up her leg and she knew that she would be digging glass out of her foot later.

"No!" Sherlock bellowed and he pushed himself forcefully away from Molly.

Ignoring the urgent pain in her foot, Molly looked up into Sherlock's crazed eyes. "This has to stop Sherlock," she said quietly.

Sherlock was startled by her determination. Had she really just caused herself physical harm to protect him? And to protect him from _himself_? Sherlock felt sick. He felt sick at what he'd done, but there was no changing what was past.

"Molly," he said urgently, holding her gaze.

Molly could see the pleading in his eyes behind their fervor, and amongst her anger and fear, she felt great pity and care for the broken man before her. She saw the way about his movements, the way he breathed, that he needed to cool off.

"Sherlock," she said slowly so that she wouldn't set him off, "Go calm down, but please, please don't go out that door."

Sherlock breathed hard and tried to regain control of himself. His insides were swirling with rage, despair, and confusion. And for some reason, he was deciding to obey the person who took away his peace, his freedom from boredom. _What is it about her that makes me want to submit_? he thought bitterly, _Her of all people?_

Sherlock made slow movements as he walked timidly to his bedroom. He stopped in front of Molly and peered down into her keen brown eyes.

"Please, Molly. Don't tell John. I—I can't—I don't want him to—he can't know about this, please, Molly." His eyes were scared and Molly's heart broke once more for this man.

"Okay," she whispered. Sherlock looked down at the small pool of blood that was becoming rather large around Molly's foot.

"You're bleeding."

"I know," she was still whispering, "I'll fix it up as soon as you lie down."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I'll do it. It's my fault."

Molly fought back tears with everything she had. It wasn't because of the pain, no, it was because she had never seen Sherlock in such an unhinged manner, and she wanted nothing more to see him back to normal.

"I'm going to do it."

"No—"

"You're hands are shaking."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. They were indeed pulsing in a frenzy at his sides. He swallowed and returned his gaze to Molly's eyes. "I am sorry, Molly."

Molly closed her eyes, "I know."

Sherlock wanted to say so much more, but he knew that now was not the right time, so he made for his room. He had his hand on his bedroom door knob when he paused and turned back to Molly.

"First aid kit is under the bathroom sink." He twisted the knob and disappeared, leaving Molly alone with so many compromising thoughts and emotions that she had to wait until her own hands stopped shaking before she pulled out the glass that was wedged in her foot.

* * *

Sherlock immediately threw himself down onto his bed. For hours he searched his mind palace, trying to find stored information on emotions and situations. Doors were locked, and he got lost. He squeezed his eyes tight and pulled at his hair in frustration. _Where is everything_? he thought angrily. Sherlock threw his arms to his sides and stared hopelessly at the ceiling. _Why now? Why is everything falling apart now?_

* * *

Sherlock emerged, fully dressed, once he decided that most of the drugs had worn off. He found Molly sitting on the sofa with her foot propped up on the coffee table. He felt sick again. Molly wasn't reading, and it was silly to be unnerved by this, but Sherlock knew that she was in a fair enough mood when a book was glued to her hands. Sherlock's stomach growled, remembering that he hadn't eaten in a long time, but he ignored it and focused on the injured girl.

He looked at her foot now, which was covered in a bloody bandage, and rested next to the first aid kit. Sherlock made his way into the room. Molly looked up at him as he entered.

"I didn't call John," she said in a flat, quiet voice.

Sherlock came around the coffee table and sat on it, facing Molly. Gently, he lifted her foot and set it on his thigh. He unwound the soiled gauze carefully from her small foot. Molly watched him with sad eyes. Throwing the cloth aside, he opened the kit and picked up the silver tweezers. He swallowed and hesitated.

"My hands aren't shaking anymore," he said, peering up into her eyes from his bowed head.

Molly closed her eyes. "Good," she nodded, "good."

Sherlock expertly drew out the small fragments that Molly had missed. When no glass remained, Sherlock silently put away his tools and wrapped a fresh bandage around her foot.

Molly watched his movements with bittersweet emotions. It was a terrific feeling that he wanted to help her, to fix his problem, but she was also sad. Sad because she had never seen him look so ashamed of himself. In her eyes, Sherlock looked like he needed to be soothed, and for someone to tell him that he wouldn't feel the way he did for much longer. Molly knew that Sherlock was stressing over far too many things for one person to bear at one time. John was the first reason. Sherlock was left to live alone, now that his best, and only, friend was off and married, having adventures Sherlock could never be a part of. 221b was now an unpleasant place to Sherlock because it reminded him too much of John. And then there was Magnussen. Sherlock had made the decision to commit murder in order to protect Mary. His brain had been ravaged ever since then. Even the rumors of Moriarty having survived wreaked havoc on his sanity, especially since he was forbidden to look into it at the moment. Sherlock needed peace if he were to stop from going mad.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He was looking down at Molly's foot on his leg, his hand still holding it there.

"Molly—"

Molly shook her head, "Sherlock. It's okay."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his penetrating eyes made her want to shrink back into the cushions. "You think that this was _okay?_ That my repulsive behavior—How can you be so forgiving, Molly?" His eyes were pleading. "It will be the death of me."

Molly swallowed. "All I care about, Sherlock, is that you get better."

Sherlock, without knowing, gripped her foot tight from grief and frustration. He immediately withdrew his hand from her when he saw Molly wince with pain. He didn't, however, make any move to remove her foot from his lap.

_Why_? he wanted to ask, _Why would you want to waste your time on me_? However, he remained silent as he avoided her gaze.

Molly licked her lips. "So, are you hungry? You haven't eaten in a long time."

His stomach growled. "No."

Molly sighed. "Sherlock, you need to—"

"I'm not hungry, Molly." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Alright," she said, trying to get him to talk, "What do you need then?"

"Nothing," he said flatly. _What do I need?_ _To escape this godforsaken flat, for one._ "I'm just tired, Molly." The effects of the drugs had worn him out physically as well as mentally. Molly cleared her throat and pulled her foot off of Sherlock's leg. She leaned forward and took one of his slender hands between both of her own small ones.

"Tired?" she asked solemnly.

"Yes." It was almost a whisper.

Molly stood, still holding his hand in one of hers, and tugged at him so he would do likewise. Sherlock rose slowly, watching her all the while. Molly guided him out of the sitting room, through the kitchen, and into the bedroom without uttering a word. She stepped lightly on her foot as she went, and Sherlock followed obediently. Molly stopped him just before the bed and she let go of his hand. She turned around, facing him, and put her hands on his shoulders. Sherlock gave her a questioning glance before he realized what she was doing. She pushed Sherlock's jacket off his shoulders and slid it off of his arms. She draped it over a chair that was against the wall.

"Shoes," she said, pointing at his feet. Sherlock complied and kicked off his shoes and then untucked his purple shirt from his slacks. Molly led him to the bed and pushed him down onto it by lightly touching his chest with her fingertips. Sherlock submitted and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to climb under the sheets. Molly stepped around to the other side and crawled in next to him.

Sherlock was surprised when she unexpectedly curled up against his side, resting her head on his arm. He swallowed and kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. Molly blushed in the darkness, unnerved about being in this position with him, but she felt like he needed this form of company. Sherlock and Molly laid stiffly at each other's side, neither one wanting to compromise their situation. However, as both were slowly taken by sleep, they relaxed into each other, too tired to notice or care.

* * *

Sherlock was awakened from his slumber when Molly stirred at his side. He craned his neck to get a glimpse of the digital clock on his bedside table. 3:57 a.m. Sherlock sighed and turned his attention to the sleeping girl nuzzled against him. Molly had looped her arms around his own in her sleep. This is the closest he had ever been to Molly Hooper, and he enjoyed it. _What? No. I do not enjoy this_, he thought anxiously. _How can I enjoy the fact that she attached herself to me in her sleep? I should be appalled, shouldn't I?_ Sherlock swallowed; a lump formed in his throat.

In the moonlight, Molly's pale skin seemed to glow almost, and Sherlock found it very difficult to take his eyes off of her. His insides squirmed with an uneasiness he was not accustomed to. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine how it would feel to have Molly wrapped in his arms. His heart pounded in his ears and he felt something strangely close to what he would describe as a craving. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. _Do I_ crave _her?_ he thought wildly. _Is that what this is?_ Sherlock was immensely flustered and confused by this. _I have never been attached to her in this way before, so why now?_ But Sherlock found his answer before he had finished his question. _Of course it would be now. Of course, in my time of need. Molly was, and is, here for me. I've seen a different, passionate side of her._

Sherlock was washed over with sorrow. _Why her? Molly, this brilliant, beautiful, caring girl. Why did I have to curse her with my affection? She deserves someone who is whole, not my scarred and fractured existence_. He knew that Molly still had unspoken feelings for him, and it made him feel worse.

Sherlock watched Molly sleep, drinking in every detail about her. And as the time passed, his self-restraint grew weaker and weaker. To calm himself, he took several deep breaths. Without trying to disturb Molly, Sherlock rotated his body so that he was on his side facing her. Molly stirred a little, and he froze. When she didn't move for a long while, Sherlock resumed. He delicately pulled his arm from her embrace and worked it underneath her body so that she was lying on top of his arm, and her face was pressed into his collarbone. Sherlock hesitated again to be sure that he hadn't woken her. Molly slept soundly, so he carefully set his hand on her hip. Sherlock ran his hand over her waist, receiving shivers of pleasure as his little finger grazed over her warm bare skin. Once his arms had enveloped her entirely, he grasped his own wrists and locked her into an embrace. Sherlock steadied his breathing, but failed to steady his heart. He was scared at how much he took pleasure in holding Molly's body against his own. Closing his eyes, Sherlock pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, and tried to drown his fear and doubt with the thought of her presence.

* * *

Molly yawned and stretched. Well, she tried to stretch. She was constricted from something wrapped around her. She opened her eyes in confusion and her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Molly was securely set against Sherlock's perfect form, their legs tangled together. She had to blink a couple of times to register what was happening. Molly didn't get much of a chance to ponder possibilities before Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes.

He looked down, noticing that she was awake. "Good morning," he said and Molly felt his baritone voice vibrating in his chest.

"Um, morning," she replied sheepishly. Sherlock squinted at her in misperception until he understood her discomfort.

"Oh, um, sorry." Unwillingly he unlocked his arms and drew them back to his sides as he scooted away.

Molly swallowed. "It's fine, it's fine."

The pair laid there in silence. They even avoided each other's gaze; Sherlock stared at the wall while Molly glared at the sheets, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Sherlock wanted more than anything to feel the comfort of her embrace again, but decided that it was best to give her space since it was obvious by her expression that she was in shock.

Molly was the one who broke their silence. "So, um, are you up for breakfast?"

"Sure," he said, trying to sound casual, though his stomach was alive with hunger pains.

Molly hastily scooted away and slid off the bed. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and began to grab the assorted ingredients that she would need for their breakfast. Sherlock stood and slowly followed her into the kitchen. He watched her slender frame flit about the room as she prepared everything. He cleared his throat.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Molly turned to him, quite stunned, because Sherlock _never_ offered to help with things of that sort. "You can get the coffee going, if you like."

Sherlock nodded ad stepped around her to make his way to the coffee pot. When the coffee was brewing, he took a seat at the table and continued to observe her. There was ungracefulness about the way she moved, which Sherlock had noticed before, but now found it endearing for a reason he couldn't quite explain. It was in her practiced hands where the steadiness lied.

Their breakfast had an awkward air to it. They ate and drank in silence because neither of them were brave enough to start a conversation. It was after Molly had cleaned up their mess when she addressed him. She sat down across from Sherlock, who was still sipping his coffee at the table, and swallowed.

"So, um, this morning…" she began awkwardly. Sherlock set down his mug. Molly looked down at the table and twiddled her thumbs in her lap.

"You want to know why we were sleeping like that." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yeah," she chuckled humorlessly. Molly cleared her throat. "So, did you…do it in your sleep…?"

Sherlock stared at her evenly, though she didn't meet his eyes. "No." She looked up at him now. Her eyes burned with what Sherlock would classify as hope.

"No?" Sherlock shook his head. He yearned for her to understand what he felt, but he didn't want to say it. "Well, then why did—" Molly was stopped when she saw Sherlock's expression change. He looked sad again, Molly thought.

"Because I need you."

Molly was stunned. She had no idea how to respond to a statement like that, especially coming from Sherlock. Sherlock noticed the change of atmosphere and stood. He thought he had embarrassed her by making his declaration, so he excused himself to take a shower.

* * *

When Sherlock returned from his shower, he found Molly sitting on the sofa, leaning over her travel bag, which was on the coffee table in front of her. He felt a bitter taste in his mouth. Was she preparing to leave? Sherlock wanted to say something, but decided against it and took a seat in his chair. He steepled his hands, closed his eyes, and entered his mind palace, storing away new thoughts and information, deleting useless clutter that took up space. The two of them had just sat there in silence for hours, doing whatever they pleased, but not uttering a word to each other.

"Sherlock," Molly said hesitantly, disrupting the silence. "You said that you need me."

"Yes," he said as he exited his mind palace. He opened his eyes and gazed at her from across the room.

"What—what did you mean by that?"

Sherlock stood and walked over to her. He pushed aside her tote and sat on the table in front of her.

"I said I need you because it's the truth." His deep voice sounded earnest from every angle.

Molly's eyes fluttered. "I know, but what did you _mean_ when you said it?"

Sherlock looked at his hands. _I meant that I am in worse shape that I have ever been, and no one could help me, not even John, but you could. I meant that if it was not for you, I would have gone mad, and probably will go mad if you leave. I meant that you are too forgiving and that I don't deserve your mercy, but you grant me it anyways. I meant that you make me feel human, and not the monster that I truly am._

But Sherlock didn't say any of that. He didn't even choose one. Instead, he leaned forward, and cupped Molly's face in his hands and brought her lips forcefully against his. Molly's eyes widened in shock, her face burned and her heart was beating a thousand miles an hour, but she didn't hesitate to respond. She reached up and slid her fingers into his curls and deepened their kiss. Her action affected Sherlock in such a way he could not explain, and moaned quietly against her lips.

Sherlock had kissed other women before, meaning Janine, but with Molly, it was different. He felt that same foreign emotion in the kiss and it animated him, he felt alive with electricity. Everything that was _Molly_ clogged his senses; she was everywhere.

It took every ounce of his strength to pull back. Reluctantly, Molly withdrew and removed her grip on his hair, her hand sliding down to his neck, then to his chest, and then she let it drop to her lap.

Sherlock swallowed and looked into her eyes. "I need you, Molly," he said in a low voice. Molly nodded slowly to show that she now understood.

Molly licked her lips. "I still have to go, Sherlock—"

"Why?" he demanded, not allowing her to finish.

Molly gestured to her bag. "I only had enough for a few days. And I have to go back to work soon."

"Are you coming back?" he asked with a clenched jaw.

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

Molly grinned sheepishly at him, "Then yes, I'll come back."

"And you'll stay with me?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I'll stay with you." She was still grinning, but Sherlock's gaze was intense.

"For how long?"

"However long you want me to."


	3. Author's Note

Author's Note

First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for reading this! It means a lot to know that you actually enjoy it enough for me to continue with this work. Your reviews have been amazing, I can't express how much it encourages me, as a writer, to know that people actually like what I have to bring to the table. I want to thank those of you who found the grammatical errors that I asked you to point out to me as well (especially the one about the "knickers," that one was really good to know since I had no idea...).

Now I feel like I need to give you all an apology. I am currently working on a Merlin fanfic, one that I have been working on for a few months now, and I paused it to write this chapter. I plan on continuing that fic, and until I reach the end of it, I don't know if I will pause again to give you all another chapter. I've heard that it is a really bad idea to write two fics at once, so this is me trying to give both parties what they've asked for, but at different speeds. I plan, however, to update this fic as soon as I get the chance, but I'm afraid it may not be as soon as we both may like.

Sorry, and I love you all!

peridotpirate


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